


Ice Ice Baby; or, No Exit (eat your heart out, Jean-Paul)

by the_transfeminine_mystique



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, and hm i wonder who oversaw the initial tests of the cryogenic chambers at ecopoint antarctica, bc i did, did y'all see that article about how scientists at antarctic bases do nothing but fuck all the time, first chapter has an unnamed hookup but the rest is moira/angela, hints at D/s stuff but it doesn't extend beyond angela just being subby as fuck, i wonder how that would go, they'd prolly need a doctor and a geneticist on hand to make sure nothing went wrong, wink wink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 01:55:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19052911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_transfeminine_mystique/pseuds/the_transfeminine_mystique
Summary: Overwatch assigned a geneticist to work with Angela Ziegler on making sure that new cryogenic technology for an antarctic base doesn't cause health complications, and Angela isn't terribly happy about it. I mean, how would *you* like to be sexually frustrated and stranded for months in Antarctica with somebody who thought you were an intern?





	Ice Ice Baby; or, No Exit (eat your heart out, Jean-Paul)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [g-r-a-v-e-y-a-r-d.tumblr.com](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=g-r-a-v-e-y-a-r-d.tumblr.com).



Angela Ziegler was sleeping at her desk.

“Was” being the operative word.

The fire alarm didn’t _immediately_ wake her — her dream morphed from simply having weird background noise to being a dream about a fire alarm going off before she came to — but it didn’t take too long. She jerked out of her chair, rubbing her bleary eyes with the back of her hand, and stumbled towards the door, still half-asleep. She had just reached out her hand to push open the door when the alarm stopped.

Fuck that.

But now she was up, so she figured she might as well get coffee.

She pushed open the door and shuffled down the hall to the science wing breakroom, hoping against hope that somebody had already put on a pot and she wouldn’t have to wait 15 minutes for it to brew. Her eyes drifted up to the ceiling as she walked. At least there hadn’t been _quite_ enough smoke to trigger the sprinklers. That would have been bad. She shuddered at the thought of finding all the papers scattered around her office ruined. A nightmare scenario, honestly.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she made it to the breakroom and saw a pot of coffee waiting for her. Her face tightened again when she saw somebody she barely recognized — an intern? new hire? who knows — conspicuously refusing to lift his gaze from the floor while trying to shake _something_ out of a suspiciously unplugged toaster. The breakroom was smoky. Great.

Shaking her head, Angela grabbed her mug and filled it before heading back to her office. She had wanted a change of scenery, but the corresponding change of air quality was a bridge too far. Oh well. She should probably get back to work anyway. She _had_ slept in, after all, almost to 7:30.

Angela rounded the last corner on the way to her office only to be met by an open door and the voice of Strike Commander Morrison addressing someone whom Angela did not know

“—working on this project with you. We’re extremely excited to have you on board, and I know Dr. Ziegler will be thrilled to be working alongside—”

Angela silently turned on her heel and walked away at a brisk pace. She wasn’t in any state — or any mood, for that matter — to be meeting new colleagues this morning. She’d rather endure the smoke. Hell, she’d rather endure an actual fire.

The intern or whoever he was who set off the fire alarm was gone when she got back to the breakroom, and the toaster had a “BROKEN — DO NOT USE” note taped to the front. Apparently he hadn’t been able to get whatever it was out. Angela rolled her eyes. Amateur. Getting scraps of burnt who-knows-what out of toasters wasn’t exactly brain surgery, and she should know. But still, he _did_ inadvertently make sure that Jack and his mystery guest didn’t walk in on her sleeping, so that had to count for something. She fished around in the pockets of her lab coat until she found a long thin pair of tweezers. Perfect. After dispatching that task with ease, she removed the sign and plugged it back in. There. Nobody would be the wiser, and whoever he was would be spared the embarrassment of putting the toaster out of commission.

The smoky smell had almost entirely cleared by the time Angela was done with her coffee, and the breakroom had remained gloriously quiet. She stood up and stretched, filling up her mug again for good measure. The coast should be clear now.

  
It wasn’t.

 

Angela arrived back at her office with her second cup of coffee only to be greeted by the slim figure of a redhead in a lab coat sitting in one of her chairs and reading one of the academic journals from her bookshelf. Her eyebrows shot up. Why the fuck had Jack just let whoever this is stay in her office?

It was scarcely a second before the readhead noticed her and glanced up from her book, and Angela braced herself for the dreaded yet inevitable onslaught of effusive praise that she seemed to generate from everybody she met. She didn’t _choose_ to be good at math and science from an impossibly young age, she just _was._ And another thing she _was_ was annoyed at the way that people would idealize the hell out of her. She just wanted to do her job, but here was yet another person who wouldn’t be able to see her as anything but Angela Fucking Ziegler, Child Prodi——

“Oh, Morrison must have sent you, thanks for this,” the stranger’s voice cut across Angela’s thoughts as she reached for the mug of coffee in her hand. “Thank god for interns.” She cracked a smile that Angela _hated_ under the circumstances. “Do you know when Ziegler’s going to be in? Morrison told me to wait here for her.”

Angela’s mouth hung open for a second, and before she could collect her thoughts, the stranger continued.

“Should have introduced myself. Dr. Moira O’Deorain. I’m a geneticist here to assist with the cryogenics project. Is that something that Ziegler’s told you much about? I don’t know how involved interns are here with actual research. Although honestly, running coffee to researchers so they’re awake enough to not make mistakes is probably more important of a job than half of what goes on here.” Her lips betrayed a hint of a smile, although her deadpan delivery did not.

But Angela couldn’t focus on that.

This…….. _person,_ Moira O’Deorain, was trying to bond with her as if she were an _intern._ In _her office,_ while drinking _her coffee,_ sitting in _her chair,_ and casually leafing through _her books._

Had she lived the past five years in a fucking _cave_ ? How could somebody be a scientist, a prospective Overwatch employee, a _politically aware human being who watches the news_ and not have at least some idea of what Angela Ziegler looked like?

“Thank you for waiting, _Doctor O’Deorain,_ ” Angela said in a voice as icy as she could summon, “I’m very pleased to meet you. My name is _Doctor_ Angela Ziegler, and I would appreciate my coffee back. As it happens, I have about one Ph.D. and one M.D. too many to be treated like an intern.”

The woman had tremendous self-control, Angela would give her that, but even still she saw her eyes widen the tiniest bit and her jaw loosen, and that felt vindicating. At least she had the good sense to be ashamed.

“I must beg your forgiveness, Dr. Ziegler, I had no idea you would be so young.” The tone of her voice had changed as well. It wasn’t light and playful anymore, having acquired a slightly stilted professional quality.

Angela internally sighed. Had this woman seriously never heard of her? She always eschewed vanity, but she _had_ gotten used to being a universally recognized name, and running into a fellow researcher who didn’t seem to know anything about her threw her off.

“It’s fine. Can I have my coffee back?”

Moira almost jumped, seeming to have completely forgotten that she was holding it. Angela could have sworn that her face was a touch sheepish when she passed it back to her. Not exactly a look she would have expected from somebody who carried herself like Moira did.

Having reclaimed her mug, Angela sat down at her desk and started organizing papers, letting the room fall into an uncomfortable silence. She didn’t feel any obligation to be the one to ease the situation at all. If Moira wanted to recover from that abysmal first impression, then she would have to fucking well work for it. Angela wasn’t throwing her any bones.

After realizing that Angela wasn’t going to make it any easier for her, Moira cleared her throat and hesitantly spoke. “Strike Commander Morrison said that I would be working down here with you.” It wasn’t a question, but she sure as hell made it sound like one.

“So it seems.”

“Is there…… a desk I can use somewhere?”

Angela sighed. They hadn’t given her anything, had they. She’d have to get her set up herself. So much for productivity.

She couldn’t bring herself to look at Moira. She knew that if she did she’d start empathizing with the very new, very intimidated-seeming woman. It hadn’t been too long ago, after all, when she had been the odd one out, feeling altogether too young and too alone to feel comfortable anywhere, from college to grad school to Overwatch. And she didn’t want to empathize: right now she just wanted to be angry at the woman who assumed at first glance that she was an intern.

Angela nodded towards a smaller desk on the other side of the room. “For now, at least, you’re in here with me. Hope you don’t mind me talking to myself, because there’s gonna be a bit of that during late nights.” She didn’t really know why she threw in that last bit, but Moira seemed to grasp on to it, and gave a true, genuine smile.

“Thank you, Dr. Ziegler, I don’t mind at all. And I’m sorry again for earlier.”

Angela brushed off the apology with a wave of her hand. “I said don’t worry about it. And you can call me Angela as long as you don’t call me an intern again.”

Moira nodded, her gaze falling back to the floor. “Please, call me Moira.”

 

●

  
Angela’s habit of talking to herself proved to be far from the biggest obstacle from a peaceful office. Moira, having gotten over her initial embarrassment, fell into what seemed to be her normal routine when it came to professional interaction. It seemed that nothing Angela could do or say would be good enough. She could bring Moira a perfect human clone and the other doctor would seemingly just respond with narrowed eyes and pursed lips and an uncannily accurate identification of some massive flaw that Angela hadn’t even noticed.

She used to take it personally. She would show Moira something, Moira would be all _Moira_ about it, and Angela would go back to her quarters that night convinced that the other doctor wanted nothing more than to shut her down.

But then one night she couldn’t sleep and she decided to look up all of the videos she could find of Moira to see how she interacted with others. And holy fucking shit, Moira’s interactions with Angela seemed downright loving in comparison. One particular conference presentation to the American Society of Human Genetics had ended with three of the four panelists — the non-Moira panelists, of course — absolutely red in the face and practically screaming all the while Moira gazed back at them with poorly-concealed loathing. Angela was glad that Moira had never looked at her like that.

To be fair, Moira had been completely in the right at that ASHG panel and the other panelists were idiots. And Angela knew brilliance when she saw it. If respecting Moira’s fierce competence was all it took to escape her scorn, Angela thought that was a very very small price to pay.

But it still wasn’t _comfortable._ The environment was perpetually tense and Angela was giving up hope on ever saying or doing anything that would actually gain Moira’s approval. Not that she had any reason to particularly _want_ Moira’s approval, but a part of her did. At least their project wasn’t _too_ heavily genetic in nature. Angela didn’t know if she would be able to keep up.

 

The project was one prompted by budget considerations. Overwatch had for years maintained a scientific observation station, officially classified an “Ecopoint,” in Antarctica. Weather fluctuations could be completely unexpected and brutal, however, and every year since its opening Ecopoint: Antarctica had been battered by at least one major storm and, as a result, required a disproportionate amount of resources just to keep power and life support on. But evacuating the entire staff would create its own problems and would ultimately defeat the purpose of the Ecopoint in the first place. It wasn’t a great surprise, then, that Winston, the head of Research & Development, had suggested looking into cryostatic technology. That way the researchers could gather data up until the eve of any storms, at which point they could simply enter cryostasis until it had passed. No airlifts, and no exorbitant resource drain to keep life-support fully functioning. A win/win.

Winston’s team had created a prototype that worked in theory, but it had been unceremoniously tossed to the medical division, where it was deemed too important to be overseen by anybody other than Angela herself. Given the nature of the project and the risks of cryostasis, however, a geneticist had been brought in to help. Moira. Angela couldn’t for the life of her figure out why she had been saddled with _that particular geneticist_ , but she had long since learned that personnel decisions were messes that she didn’t want to wade into. Moira was brilliant, and if anybody could spot problems in the prototype or the underlying models, it was her.

However much Angela wished it could be anybody else.

The work went smoothly enough, at least.

 

●

 

And then it was time.

There wasn’t enough room in the budget to fully install and operate a cryogenic apparatus in Zurich for a test run, and so Angela and Moira would have to go down to the Ecopoint and oversee it there. It would likely be months, and everybody else would be in cryostasis. Just her and Moira. Angela tried to not think about that too much, but it was unavoidable at this point. She was going to be trapped in fucking Antarctica with somebody she wouldn’t even want to be trapped in an elevator with. Hell might not be other people, but it is certainly Moira O’Deorain.

And so it was the night before they’re scheduled to board the transport, and Angela was getting drunk.

She wound up at a shitty bar with an even shittier selection of beer, but she couldn’t bring herself to care about that. When the bartender asked what she wanted, she made direct eye contact and told him to bring her the first beer he grabbed. He didn’t argue, though he did look slightly concerned when Angela downed it in only a couple of swigs. But he didn’t say anything. People have days like that sometimes.

The bar was nearly empty, and Angela was glad. She didn’t know exactly what she was looking for in this night, but she knew she didn’t want to spend it dodging drunk men trying to hit on her. And until she figured out what it was she was looking for, a quiet bar with a never-ending supply of beer sounded perfect.

She was so lost in thought she almost jumped when she heard a low voice close to her ear.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?”

Angela rolled her eyes and whipped around to face down whoever that was and make sure they know that she is Angela Fucking Ziegler and deserves something a little more original than _that_ tired old line, but her mouth went dry and her train of thought was nowhere to be found. She was face-to-face with a very handsome older butch, and suddenly found the line much more charming and much less done-to-death. Gathering her wits back together, Angela just sighed and turned back to her drink.

“Leaving for the worst business trip of my life tomorrow. Why else would somebody be 7 beers in on a Tuesday night?”

Her new companion let out a soft chuckle. “That’s fair. Sounds like you’re really dreading it.”

Angela buried her head in her hands. “That’s an understatement. I’m going to be stuck in a research facility with only somebody I hate to keep me company.” She felt a twinge of guilt saying that she _hated_ Moira, but it was easier to say that than to attempt to explain their complicated dynamic.

“Damn, that sounds like hell. Where’s the place you’re going?”

Angela was suddenly aware that she might be giving out classified information at about the same moment she realized that she didn’t give a shit if she was.

“Antarctica.”

Her response provoked a raised eyebrow.

“Antarctica, eh?” A slow grin was spreading across her companion’s face. “I’ve read about what happens in research facilities down there.”

Angela looked at her quizzically before she laughed and continued.

“You know, there’s nothing there to do and half the time airplanes can’t get in and out, and so the people……. well…... find ways to pass the time, if you know what I mean.”

Angela didn’t, and she was starting to feel embarrassed about it.

Her confused look prompted a full laugh. “They fuck, sweetie. Like rabbits. Nothing else to do down there.”

Angela’s cheeks were burning and she suddenly became fascinated with her beer bottle label.

“Come on, you can’t tell me _you’ve_ never heard that. You’re the one who’s actually going, didn’t you even search the internet to see what it would be like?”

Angela shook her head. “I honestly didn’t. Guess I didn’t think it was the type of thing that you could prepare for through an online search.”

The other woman laughed. “Oh honey there’s a lot you can learn through an online search. I mean, just a little bit ago, I searched online and learned that the gorgeous little thing sitting at this bar actually _was_ the lady from all those Overwatch posters. Angela, right?”

Angela’s heart sank. Great, a fan. Love those. Love being pursued just so people can say they slept with a celebrity. Just as she was trying to figure out how to extricate herself from the situation, the voice was suddenly much closer to her ear.

“You saved my parents after an omnic attack a few years ago. I wanted to just come over and thank you, but with the state you’re in, it doesn’t sound like verbal thanks are going to cut it tonight. Looks like you need a distraction.”

Angela’s breath caught in her throat, and she knew her companion noticed. She didn’t sound like she was a fan chasing a taste of celebrity. This felt different. Maybe it was just that no other woman had hit on her like this for a very long time, but Angela found herself enticed. And the more she thought about what tomorrow would bring, the more enticed she felt.

When the butch leaned in closer, Angela bared her neck and let out a sharp gasp when she felt lips — and teeth — on it.

The other woman’s ministrations started low, close to Angela’s shoulder, but slowly moved up to her jaw and the blonde wanted to _sob_ it felt so good. She felt a steady hand on her back and couldn’t help but lean into it, provoking a chuckle.

“Needy little thing, aren’t you.” The voice was low and smooth and right in her ear and a whimper escaped her lips before Angela could stop it.

The butch’s breathing instantly became heavier, hungrier.

“Now _that’s_ a noise I want to hear again.”

Angela nodded and threw a glance towards the bathroom. Apparently she wasn’t the only one.

“Mmm I thought about that too,” the butch said, and _God_ her voice was the most arousing thing Angela had ever experienced and she wanted her to shove her hand down her jeans right fucking now, public indecency laws be damned, “but it sounds to me,” her hand was moving down to the small of Angela’s back and the doctor would have married her on the spot without thinking twice if she asked, “like you want to hear my voice.” She chuckled again. “And something tells me you’re loud.”

Angela’s breath was coming in fast, and if the woman standing over her didn’t fuck her before the end of the night, she just might die. Or go to Antarctica with Moira O-Fucking-Deorain in the most sexually frustrated state she’d been in for years. Same thing, really.

She couldn’t disguise the sob of relief when the butch continued. “My place is just a couple of blocks away. Wanna come?”

Angela was on her feet before the other woman had even finished. She dug into her purse for her wallet and rifled through it to find enough euros to cover the beers and a generous tip, tossing them absentmindedly onto the counter, before heading for the door. She felt an arm around the small of her back, and was surprised — especially in her tipsy state — to find that she felt truly _safe_ for the first time in so long.

The butch was true to her word, and the walk wasn’t a long one. Even still, watching her fumble around with her keys at the door provoked a needy whine that Angela couldn’t quite hold back.

The woman’s face split into a broad grin. “We’ll be inside in just a moment, angel.”

And they were.

The door was scarcely closed before Angela found herself pushed up against it, teeth again at her throat. She tried to stifle her reaction, but the butch noticed and pulled back just a little.

“Come on, let me hear you. Be as loud as you want for me.”

The words were accompanied by the lightest of touches right under the hem of her shirt, and Angela couldn’t have kept quiet even if she wanted to.

“Pl—please, please f—fuck me!”

Now the butch’s entire hand was under Angela’s shirt, and her teeth were nipping at Angela’s ear.

“Please!”

This drew a low chuckle. “So needy, but so polite. You’re a good girl, aren’t you, angel?”

Angela’s breaths were coming in fast and hard, and she couldn’t summon any response but a moan. Both hands were now under her shirt and they were slowly moving up and Angela had never wanted more contact as badly as she did now.

As if reading her mind, the butch pulled away just a little. “What do you say we go to the bedroom? And get you out of these clothes.”

Angela didn’t trust her voice, so she just nodded. The butch smiled and led her by the hand through the hallway to the bedroom.

Angela was distracted for just a second by the room itself and the eclectic taste it evidenced — a Vermeer print on one wall and a Rothko on another, with a framed “Lost Skeleton of Cadavra” poster beside it  — but she was pulled back into the moment by the feeling of two warm hands against her skin. The butch was standing behind her, pulling her body against hers, and _fuck_ she wanted her so badly. And suddenly there were lips on the back of her neck and a hand roaming up to her breasts and Angela was in heaven.

Her partner was just the right amount of rough, and Angela’s moans and whines and gasps were just spurring her on. She would probably have marks on her neck the next morning, but Angela couldn’t bring herself to care. It would be fun, even, to see the look on Moira’s face when she showed up to the transport hangar with evidence of tonight’s activities. Would she say anything? Would she be jeal—— Angela shook herself. Why the hell was she thinking about Moira right now? As her attention snapped back to the present, she realized that the butch’s other hand had started to dip under the waist of her jeans, slowly, teasingly.

Angela wasn’t sure if she could take _not_ being fucked for another second. Her voice was broken and needy. “ _Please_ fuck me, Miss, please, I need you.”

The arm around her torso pulled her tighter, and she felt the butch’s lips travel against her skin from her neck to right below her ear.

“Try ‘Sir’ and see what happens, angel.”

Angela felt like she couldn’t breathe. “ _Please Sir, please fuck me, I need it so badly._ ”

She felt Sir’s smile against her neck just a split second before she felt her hand sink lower in her jeans and brush her clit through her underwear. Angela moaned loudly and bucked against Sir’s hand, provoking a chuckle that seemed to gain an even hungrier quality when her hand moved lower and she realized just how wet Angela was.

“Feels like somebody’s enjoying herself…”

“Y—yes!! So m—much!!” was all Angela could manage.

The chuckle was gone and Sir’s voice suddenly felt like steel as she pulled her hand out of Angela’s jeans and turned her around to face her. “Yes…..?”

“ _Sir_!” Angela said just a little louder than she meant to.

Sir pushed her back onto the bed. “That’s my good little angel. I would hate to have to discipline you for disrespect.”

Angela’s moan didn’t at all make it seem like that would be a bad thing.

“Take off your shirt.”

Angela had hoped to feel Sir take off her shirt for her, but this was better, infinitely better. She wanted to show just how good she was, she wanted to herself off for Sir.

“And your bra.”

After a second of fumbling — God she was more drunk than she had realized — her bra joined her shirt on the floor, and Sir knelt down to admire her body.

Angela couldn’t remember the last time somebody had looked at her like this. She felt like a prize that Sir had just won, and she couldn’t _wait_ until she would claim her.

Sir’s kisses against Angela’s collarbone and chest were gentle and soft, and Angela almost screamed when Sir suddenly bit down on a patch of skin to mark her chest like she had marked her neck. Sir pulled away and pushed Angela down flat onto the bed, one hand fumbling with Angela’s jeans and the other tracing lightly over the purple mark she had just left on Angela’s chest before roughly grabbing one of her breasts, Angela’s loud moan spurring her on.

The hand was suddenly gone, and Angela instinctively let out a whine.

Sir chuckled. “Patience. I’m going to make you feel good.” She pulled off Angela’s jeans and then suddenly Angela was in heaven again, Sir’s hand tracing lightly over her ruined panties.

Angela closed her eyes, trying to take in every part of the experience. It had been so so long, and she wanted this so badly. It was overwhelming in the best of ways.

Sir’s voice, low and gravely, cut across her thoughts. “Whose cunt is this?”

Angela couldn’t help but buck against Sir’s hand and moan. “Yours,” she gasped out, “it’s yours, Sir.”

“Good girl.” Sir’s thumb passed lightly over Angela’s clit, provoking a gasp. “How badly do you want me to fuck this pretty little cunt?”

“So badly, please Sir, please, I need it, please…” Angela’s voice trailed off into incoherent babbling as Sir’s face broke into a smile and she pulled down Angela’s panties, dropping them on the floor beside the rest of her clothes.

“You’re so beautiful, and you’re all mine.”

Angela was still processing that — _fuck,_ when did she get this drunk? — when she felt two fingers thrust inside her and suddenly nothing else in the world existed. She wasn’t a celebrity, she wasn’t Angela Ziegler, she was just Sir’s angel, and she was getting fucked. Her loud, needy moan seemed to have an effect on Sir, because her slow movements instantly became faster and rougher and more forceful. Angela was glad they hadn’t stayed in the bar bathroom, or at least she would have been had she been capable of coherent thought at the moment. She wouldn’t have been able to keep quiet. Sir was so good and her fingers were so skilled and her voice was so hot and Angela was a mess of moaning and whimpering. She felt a third finger slip inside her, and couldn’t help but cry out.

She could hear the smile in Sir’s voice as she leaned forward and cupped her cheek with her free hand. “Does that feel good, angel?”

It felt so good. Angela could feel the tension building in her core, pushing her closer and closer and closer to the edge, and all she could do was gasp out “I—i’m gon—nna——— S—Sir I’m g—gonna——”

And Sir leaned down and brought her lips to Angela’s ear, her hand against one cheek and her cheek against Angela’s other, and whispered, “then come for me, angel.”

Angela’s thighs clamped down around Sir’s hand and she came with a loud cry, her body engulfed in pleasure that was almost too intense to bear. Sir fucked her through it, not slowing down until Angela’s screams died down to whimpers.

Sir pulled out of Angela, prompting a spent moan from the blonde, and brought her fingers to her lips, tasting her angel for the first time. The sight was almost enough to make Angela come again.

And suddenly Sir was beside her, kissing her cheek and pulling her close, and Angela, the chronic overthinker, the prodigy who never had fewer than 4 different lines of thought whizzing around in her head, the genius who could never truly let go and be in the moment, was happy. Just happy. And safe. And come what may in the morning, life was perfect right now.

 


End file.
